1/4/13 - Lone Rangers and Strangers - Pt 1

So, we were talking about how the spy game actually !@#$ing works, the other day. And I told you about having things on people, and !@#$ like that. 

You remember that, son? Or are you still scared some dog!@#$ing punk with no brain, a !@#$ longer than his arm, and more guns that Al !@#$ing Capone is going to hunt you down, eat your skin, and bang your skull because you got hold of his sister's favorite marble?

Well, put that fear aside, son. Bloody Dogkill street's long-since gentrified. Now you're in more danger of being hit up by yuppies selling Civet Cat coffee than what used to go on in that place.

(Or maybe it's gotten worse. Ever tried that cat butt stuff? I'm still tasting it, years and years and ten million beers later.)

Anyway. That !@#$ about the fine art of blackmail, threats, and cooperation? That's only half the story, son. Because while it's one thing to have something on someone, you can't !@#$ing blackmail your allies into doing what you want if you actually want them to be !@#$ing allies, as opposed to people who will turn around and !@#$ you in the back with a very large knife the first chance they get.

No, son. For that, you need something different. You need favors. 

Yes, son. Favors. As in "Do this for me and I owe you one." Or "I will do this for you, but I'll ask for something in return, someday."

Or, even more rarely, "Now we're even."

It's a dangerous game. You need a lot of memory and a !@#$ good sense of bargaining. But if you can keep it all down in your little black book, you'll be ahead of the game.

Especially when you can combine favors and threats into one tasty package...

Now, you got all that? I mean, I know it's a lot to !@#$ing take in, son, but what do you expect? There's a reason us superspies make the big !@#$ bucks. Or get to !@#$ing steal them, anyway.

(But that's another big !@#$ story for another day...)

So let me give you a perfect !@#$ing example of how this all !@#$ing works. And that would be the tragicomic tale of one Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Would-be Moroccan astronaut, accidental interplanetary revolutionary, space pirate of the Viridian Sea, the greatest nemesis of the Emperor, the current head of our new Space Service.

And the last man in the Solar System you want to !@#$ with, after yours truly.

How he got to be where he was, and is now, is a quiet little story with loud !@#$ing consequences. It also perfectly illustrates what a massive cluster!@#$ the international superspy game can be.

It all starts in the mid-60s, when our friends in ABWEHR decided to hook up with people who !@#$ing hated Jews as much as they did. This meant making some inroads with various governments in Asia, the Middle East, and Northern Africa, and some of those folks were !@#$ing stupid enough to bite.

Now, some of these relationships would never quite get off the !@#$ ground, thanks to Israel finding out and kicking !@#$. And some would eventually have severe !@#$ing ramifications, especially in Libya, and some eventually bled into things like the Yom Kippur War.

But some of them went right the !@#$ under the table, because, to those countries' credit, they decided to take what their new Nazi !@#$buddies had given them and did not advertise it, nor get really deeply involved with any heavy !@#$ that came after.

That's what happened in !@#$ing Morocco, for example. In the 50's and 60's, they were buddies with the !@#$ing Soviet Union, mostly because everyone else was. After that, they kind of swung our way, if only because they wanted better trade partners, not to mention better !@#$ing weapons.

But, all along, they maintained a number of alliances with creepy !@#$holes, if only because it worked out to their benefit, and it made them a lot of !@#$ing money. And when they got caught, they could always claim they were shocked, shocked to find out that super villain bull!@#$ was going on in their country.

(You do know Casablanca's in Morocco, right? Just making sure, son.)

So, one of the wedding presents that Morocco kept, post-divorce with ABWEHR, was the functioning start of an actual, for-!@#$-real, !@#$ing space program.

No, really. I'm sure you knew that some of those mother!@#$ing Nazi scientists had some amazing !@#$ ideas on getting into orbit, and beyond. But you may not have known that not all of those folks got snapped up by Operation Paperclip, grabbed by the !@#$ Soviets, or shot in the back of the !@#$ head at the end of the War. Some of them actually made it out with ABWEHR, and their researches continued, just along slightly different lines.

Well, the Moroccans wanted to go into !@#$ing space. And if they'd managed to make it work, using ABWEHR's tech, they'd have cleaned up pretty !@#$ well. Especially if the Silbervogel spaceplane worked as advertised, and they could deploy a payload during the flight.

Oh, that surprises you? You think that NASA, the ESA, and the Soviets were the only major players in the outer space game? Think the !@#$ again, son. There were bunches of folks trying their hand at the table. It's just that we were the only ones who had any real !@#$ success, for one reason or another. 

I mean, !@#$, son. You know about the Space Race. You know about the probes, the satellites. The Moon Landings. Alpha Base Seven. You even know about Deep Ten, rest its massive soul.

But there's tons of !@#$ you never !@#$ing heard about. Big !@#$ science that was not done by governments with rational, well-funded research divisions. Reckless experiments by high-science weirdos, all tweaking the !@#$ boundaries of the possible and impossible.

And occasionally they'd find some gold, up there in the black, but more often than not they just crashed and burned.

I mean, you think the early American space program had some really big !@#$-ups during the testing stages? You should have seen some of those poor fools who thought they could fly to Mars or beyond on a literal wing and a !@#$ prayer. There's !@#$ing dozens of dead spaceships floating between here and the outer and inner planets. Silent eternal graveyards in space, their crew flash frozen in the moments between life and death when something went horribly wrong.

Or worse. Much worse.

So just imagine, son. Imagine a reusable spaceplane that was actually based on sound, scientific principles. Imagine it being accelerated up to speed by a rocket sled, and then using its own engine to get up into the deep blue sky. Imagine it skipping across the atmosphere, tossing a satellite up, and then coming back down half the !@#$ world away.

Imagine us having that kind of technology in the !@#$ing mid-70's, instead of having to go through that sorry, expensive farce with the !@#$ing Space Shuttle for all those !@#$ years.

Well, that's all well and good. But come the late 70's, when Morocco managed to put all the !@#$ pieces together, no one was really wanting to see them come out on top. Especially not Israel, considering that Morocco had helped out during the Yom Kippur War.

So, as soon as Israel realized that this country was about to beat it to the stars, not to mention beat America to having a reusable suborbital spaceplace, they decided to !@#$ing do something about it.

But here's the problem. Israel could do a lot with what it had. Unfortunately, it needed to do it quietly, so as to make whatever it did look like a massive !@#$ing accident. The kind of mishap that sets a space program back years, if not decades.

So sending Supers over to smash the Silvervogel? Not going to !@#$ing happen. And they can't sabotage it on the ground, thanks to some talents the Moroccans had watching over the program. And they can't blast it out of the !@#$ air on the way up or someone might !@#$ing see.

No, son. In order for this !@#$ to work they needed to blast the !@#$ing silver bird out of existence while it was out of our atmosphere, and skipping along to its destination.

Now, Israel does not a !@#$ing space program. However, it has understandings with various organizations that do. It's got us, of course. And it's got the !@#$ing Space Service, which is mostly us. And it's got the COMPANY, too, and MI-10, Direction Noir, and anyone else involved in the !@#$ ESA.

Now, the ESA people all beg off, mostly because they want to see this !@#$ thing work and buy the tech, so as to steal a march from NASA, which is still having a problem getting it's !@#$ing Space Shuttle off the ground. NASA's keen to stamp on this !@#$, too, but they're not going to make a !@#$ recommendation until they see which way the Space Service is going to !@#$ing jump.

But the Space Service? Get this, son. They say no. 

Why? Well, I doubt it's because they wanted to take the high road (stop laughing) but they do say that, if they started shooting at !@#$ing humans, instead of alien invaders, no one would ever be able to !@#$ing trust them again. That and they did not want others to learn what kind of weapons capability they ahd.

And they were !@#$ right to be leery of that, as we've since learned. 

Now, that leaves the COMPANY. And, given a chance to stomp Supernazi !@#$, however removed, you know I'm going to leap at that !@#$. Normally.

But here's the thing, son. At the time, the COMPANY was in a bit of a !@#$ing match with Israel over turf. Israel's two major spy organizations, HAGANAH and Molchanie, were at cross purposes over what to do with a certain other science criminal organization. And while we really could have just !@#$ing settled the matter over a few drinks and a good argument, the two groups were not wanting to talk to each other, but rather around each other, using the COMPANY as a go-between.

So I was pretty !@#$ing sick of them, by then, and decided to try and use the issue as a big !@#$ bargaining chip to get to the table. And I figured it'd work, right? I mean, it wasn't like they were going to go to the !@#$ing Soviets, were they?

(And, yes, they did. But the Soviets told them to suck it up, too. Go figure.)

Well, they drag their !@#$ feet, and eventually stop calling me. So I figure they're playing hard to !@#$ing get. And the time to the launch gets closer and closer, and I'm wondering if I'm going to have to kick !@#$ all by myself.

However, the Moroccans get wind that something's !@#$ing up, somehow. And they bring the launch forward a whole !@#$ week, which if you know !@#$ing anything about space travel is just !@#$ing unheard of.

At or around 6 in the AM, local time, they strap Captaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir into the cockpit of the Silbervogel. The preflight checks are rushed though as quickly as possible, the area cleared by force and fire. He waves once and smiles, saying that he's as ready as he's ever going to be, and all systems are go, go, go.

So they hit the big !@#$ red button, and the rocket sled takes off. They travel at ridiculous !@#$ speeds until they get just below where they need to be !@#$ing going. And then Faraj somehow presses the !@#$ button to activate the ship's own rocket engine. There's a burst of white-hot fire, and the ship flies off the sled, nearly straight up into the atmosphere.

It goes up, up, up. Faster and faster. The light blue of the desert sky turns into indigo, and then into black, and Faraj becomes the first Moroccan to see the stars from outside the atmosphere.

Only then, something goes terribly wrong. There's a flash of light, brighter than the Sun. A ring of fire floats in the upper atmosphere, just about where the Silbervogel would have been.

And, so far as anyone knows, the ship is lost, and Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. is dead.

What happened? Well, son, you remember me telling you about el Wedjat? The Mukhabarat's occult secret police? The kind of people you call when the !@#$ing Sphinx wakes the !@#$ up and starts munching down tourists?

Well, remember this was just after the Camp David Accords, son. This was when, after years of being !@#$ing enemies, Israel and Egypt were going to try being peaceful neighbors, again. And that opened a number of diplomatic options back up, not to mention a few back-channels.

So yeah. When we were stalling, and they couldn't !@#$ing agree, HAGANAH got in touch with el Wedjat. They explained the situation, and their people agreed that they didn't want any !@#$ing supernazi tech in space.

Plus, getting one over on a former partner in the Yom Kippur War would make certain there was no question that Egypt was now on the side of the angels.

So they had one of their more powerful ceremonial magicians do... something. !@#$ if I ever knew what, or ever will. All that we know is that it was supposed to make it look like the ship blew the !@#$ up at the most critical point in the mission, setting the Moroccan space program back enough to give NASA the breathing room it needed to make the Space Shuttle a reality, and everyone else enough time to deal with the ramifications of what just almost !@#$ing happened.

And it worked, but not without consequences far beyond what they !@#$ing thought...

Yeah, more on this later. I need another !@#$ing beer, and you look like you've had your mind blown enough tonight.

Because if that was some crazy and complicated !@#$, what happened next is going to turn your brains to Moutabal. And !@#$ am I hungry for some of that stuff, right about now.

(Unfortunately, we can't order out, anymore.)

(SPYGOD is listening to Silver Bird (Mark Lindsay) and having a Flag Speciale)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 4

When Khalil was a young boy, growing up in the mega-slums of Addis Ababa, his mother would keep her children in their beds with terrible stories of the monsters that lurked in the night.

She knew them all, that woman: the millions of horrifying creatures that Allah had created for reasons of his own; the scrabbling, ravenous things that lurked just outside of His purview; the beasts of a hundred different lands and religions, all eager to clamber into a young child's bed at night and slurp up their sweetmeats -- or worse.

Khalil loved a good scare, of course -- all children do, in their own way. But one of the stories really bothered him.

It was the legend of the most gruesome of the many, terrifying hungry ghosts of Malaysia. A terrifying being that had a different name in every country, but was essentially the same. A disgusting she-vampire that detached her head at night and flew, pulling her guts behind her as she went, and lapped the blood of pregnant women and young children who didn't mind their parents.

And while it had many names in many lands, the one that always stuck with him was Penanggalan.

Such was the fearful power of this thing that it not only made him nervous to go out at night, but also had him jumpy during the day. It even made him wet his pants at loud, sudden noises in the dark, and continued to disturb him all the way into manhood. In fact, every time he met a new young woman who seemed just a little "off" he would keep tabs on her, just to make sure her nighttime activities were legitimate, and that her head was always on her neck at the right angle from day to day.

One could say that this heightened sense of awareness served him well when he went into the NGUVU. And one could only imagine his reaction when he learned from its strategic talents handlers that the !@#$ things were actually real.

And one can only imagine his reaction, now, as one of those creatures is less than five feet away from him, floating in the air and drinking the life from his MI-6 contact.

It's nothing like what he imagined, though. He'd imagined something like what he'd seen in the movies or supernatural television shows, but this is much more terrifying. And as Mikhail bellows and throws his bottle of vodka at her, and Dosha pulls out a gun that he's not supposed to have in this bar,  Khalil leaps back to ready some kind of defense and get a better look.

The woman's head is at least three times the size of a normal head, all puffed up like an obscene basketball. Her black and red eyes seem about to burst from her blood-filled sockets, and her mouth is a roiling playground of teeth the size and random shapes of jagged, broken dinner plates. A long, red, and barbed tongue anchors her to Sir George, who's about as pale as a sheet after just five seconds of being drained.

As for the train of guts, the legends do not do this creature justice. They're not being pulled behind her like the manacles on a stately English ghost, but are actually part of her overall motion. The lungs have dissipated into millions of fibers and webs, forming sinister, batlike wings that keep her aloft. Her distended stomach and liver seem able to reach out and clutch objects, perhaps the better to perch with.

And her long, looped intestines purl and curl behind her as she goes, coiling and roiling like the tail of some magnificently long dragon. As Mikhail's vodka bottle arcs towards her, a quick, meaty flick of that tail sends it bouncing away -- off to land on the deaf waiter, who tried his best to run past the evil and down the stairs along with the rest of the guests.

(Crash goes the bottle. Thump goes the waiter. Stomp stomp go the frightened patrons' feet on the waiter.)

Khalil's mind reels with possibilities, and fear. He tries to remember what his mother told him to do if he saw one, and what defenses NGUVU's supernatural handlers advised him to take, but nothing that either of these wise fonts of information ever gave him is making itself evident, today.

"!@#$ me," Dosha spits, finally just shooting at the thing. Of course, the bullets just go through the ghostly head; it seems that she can hurt them, but they cannot hurt her -- not without magic, which he doesn't have on him, right now.

But then, there is something else...

"I can protect us, I think," Khalil offers, and crosses his arms just before his chest, willing there to be something between the monster and the rest of them. The effort makes his nose bleed, and his eyes turn red with burst vessels, but in seconds there is a strange opacity in the air between the creature -- and its victim -- and the other three.

But how long it can last is unknown.

"I am thinking strategic withdrawal, my comrades!" Mikhail says: "The window! Quickly!"

"It's no good!" Dosha shouts: "Internal Security's got snipers outside, by now."

"Who?" Mikhail shouts.

"Internal Security! ISOC! They know we're here!"

"How in the !@#$ are they !@#$ing knowing this? And how in the !@#$ are you knowing this?"

"I just do! And I know the only reason they haven't shot in is-"

A window blows out. The floor rips up and splinters. The sharp, echoing crack of a rifle comes a split second later. 

"You were saying?" Mikhail says, trying to find someplace that isn't accessible by a window.

"!@#$!" Dosha spits, looking at his watch scowling: "They should have been here by now..."

"Who should have?" Khalil asks, but then another bullet takes out another window, and he's showered with flying glass. A cut springs up on his cheek and he loses concentration, and the sudden, angry migraine that comes with using his new power smacks his brains into the back of his skull.

He winces and falls down, holding his head. St. George falls through the now-absent shield and hits the floor, pale and whispering. The Penanggalan laughs, twirls in the air, and lashes out with her tongue, ready to take on the next victim...

... and then recoils violently from something that's just entered the room, and hisses like a snake run over by a wagon wheel.

That something is an eight-sided medallion, made from strange, dark metal, and embossed with gold writing that looks like ancient Thai script.

It's being held up at eye-level by an old man, clearly not dressed for this climate. He wears a thick, heavy coat, a dignified European hat, and old-style "horse blinder" sunglasses. He also carries a silver-chased cane that seems heavier than it should be.

And on his tanned face is a commanding scowl -- the sort of look that says "you came here to die."

The black-clad, young Indian man who brought Dosha here, earlier, stands beside him, holding onto his shoulder. He steps back and takes a few deep breaths, and then assumes a place by Dosha, who's covering the old man with his gun.

"What took you so long, old man?" Dosha asks.

"I took a wrong turn in Turkey," the younger Indian says: "He squirms too much-"

"Be quiet, both of you," the old man commands, his voice thick and Polish: "And you, creature. These men are under my protection. You will leave, now. And consider yourself lucky I didn't have time to find your body."

"You will not leave here alive," she hisses, flapping away and becoming insubstantial: "The streets are lined with my people. You will be killed."

"Oh, do be quiet, you stupid !@#$," Sir George mutters from the floor: "At least let me die with an absence of bad dialogue. I'm owed that much, surely..."

"Away with you!" the old man shouts, and the metal suddenly seems more there, somehow. More solid. More real.

The Penanggalan shrieks and ripples, as though they were seeing her on the surface of a pond that's just had stones thrown into it. She turns even more ghostly, and within seconds she's vanished.

"Well, that was being anticlimactic, yes?" Mikhail asks from his spot between windows.

"We need to leave," Dosha says, extending a hand to the Russian: "Now."

And by the time the ISOC kill team runs up Poke's staircase to finish the job their pet vampire obviously bungled, they have.

* * *

"So, please to be explaining all this, again?" Mikhail asks, having another bottle of Dosha's emergency vodka as the old man tends to Sir George's wounds, over on the ratty couch. Every so often the fellow looks up and scowls, but he hasn't ventured a prognosis, yet. 

"We were bait, were we not?" Khalil asks from where he sits, up against the wall, holding a cold glass of water up to his left temple and checking to see if his nose really has stopped bleeding.

"Yes," Dosha admits, standing close to where Anil sits -- tired and dejected: "We were."

The apartment's small, with just a few pieces of furniture and minimal supplies. It used to belong to the Central Intelligence Agency, but the DIA took it over a few years back, when Thailand's most recent junta shifted numerous intelligence "understandings" around the board. So far as the DIA knows, it's been abandoned and decommissioned, but ISOC would probably think it to be the first place a former Indian Intelligence agency would go, which means it'll be the last place they search.

(A trick Dosha's used before, with some success.)

"A risky game, Dosha," Khalil accuses.

"Not really, no," Dosha explains: "We needed to know if we could trust what's left of Thailand's intelligence, right now, given their access to certain unique assets. We made an overture, and in reply they decided to turn on us, no doubt to curry favor with the Imago. I suppose they like having the illusion that they're still in charge of something."

"What about your sister, Anil?" Khalil asks, looking at the young man, who's still out of breath.

"I don't know," he says: "They say they have her, and they'd hand her over when this was all done, and you were all dead. But I think..."

He doesn't say it. He wipes away a tear, instead, and ventures nothing more. Dosha puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but the young man brushes it away.

That's the last thing he needs right now.

"So you see why I couldn't tip you all off," Dosha says, trying to recover.

"No, comrade, I am not seeing that," Mikhail says: "Do you think they had me under surveillance? You could have told us we were walking into trap."

"That would have been nice to know, yes," Khalil says.

"I don't even know how they found Anil's sister," Dosha protests: "For all I know they have us all under some kind of observation. The best I could do was bring in Dr. Krwi to deal with their Penanggalan, and even that required me to be a lot more subtle than usual-"

"Krasue," the old man corrects him, standing up from his patient: "That was unmistakably a Krasue. The Penanggalan lives further south, and rarely ventures this far up the Malay Peninsula. It is an issue of territory and feeding styles, but nothing to be so concerned about... unless you wish to banish or kill them."

"Or be bitten by one," Sir George says, opening his eyes as much as he can: "How bad is it?"

"I can do nothing more," Krwi says, sadly: "I advise you to pray. It is all that is left."

"Well, then that's that," the Englishman says.

"George, I'm so sorry-" Dosha tries to apologize, but the dying man holds up a hand.

"Someone get me a brandy. If I'm going to die, I will have a brandy."

"I don't think we have any, here?" Dosha says, looking at his liquor cabinet. 

"There is being liquor store outside, and down the stairs," Mikhail says: "I will go and get you best brandy yankee dollar can buy-"

"You're not to leave this apartment until we're clear to teleport out," Dosha insists: "We've lost too much to risk more over a !@#$ing glass of alcohol-"

He doesn't see the Russian's fist flying for his face until it's knocked him across the room. Then Anil's up and at Mikhail's throat with a knife faster than the burly man can react, but there's a sword at his own before he can drive the blade home.

"Killing each other will not fix things," the old man says, adjusting his grip on his swordcane ever so slightly.

"You do not hit him, ever," Anil hisses.

"This man's stupid sister and idiot handler got good man killed!" Mikhail shouts at Krwi. 

"Neither will recriminations," Krwi insists, calm as winter snow: "Mistakes have been made. War is full of such things. Either we pull together and learn from them, or we lose."

"I am not going to war with a !@#$ing idiot who uses us like toys to save his boyfriend's family," the Russian spits, walking away from the knife: "Drop me where you like, but I am being done with this."

"Is that how we are to honor the dead?" Khalil asks, getting to his feet: "All those people in Israel and Palestine? Do they die for nothing, then?"

"Look at us, my friend," the Russian says: "We are nothing. Whole point of us was to get together and share information. To tell truth between lies and help each other.

"And now, what do we have, eh? Dosha uses us as bait for trap, and brings in outsider we know nothing of. Khalil, you do not tell us about your power. And God !@#$ only knows what Sir George is !@#$ing hiding-"

"That I know that Khalil wasn't... wasn't just hiding the fact that he's recently developed a strategic talent," the Englishman says, trying to avoid sounding as weak as he actually is: "In fact, I was going to bring that up before... we were so rudely interrupted."

"What do you mean?" Khalil sighs.

"The Object, Khalil. They should... know about the Object. They should know what a bad thing NGUVU did... handing it over to GORGON."

"We did not hand it over to them," Khalil protests: "If you think we would hand it over to anyone-"

"Then you don't know, do you?" the Englishman says: "Well, I guess that's that, then. I wasn't sure whether you were dangerous or clueless, Khalil. I suppose.... I suppose..."

"Oh, do be quiet, both of you," the old man sighs, putting his swordcane down, and reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a flask. He kneels down to the dying man and hands it to him. 

"Is this...?" Sir George asks, taking a good whiff of it.

"It is," Dr. Krwi says: "Honey vodka. It is the best thing in the world."

The Englishman smiles, takes a good swig, and hands over the flask: "Then I die content."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Dosha asks, finally getting up off the floor.

"Other than make sure my dead letter gets sent?" George asks: "Don't let my death be for nothing. I hated you all, each and every one of you. But we did good in our time. Do more good, gentlemen. Be better than this."

He takes a last breath, exhales, and is gone. 

Mikhail's face gets so red it's a wonder blood doesn't explode from his pores, and punches the nearest wall. His fist goes through the plaster right to the wood.

"NGUVU gave the Object to GORGON?" Dosha asks, looking at Khalil. 

"We didn't..." Khalil sighs, putting his head in his hands and wondering whether the others in the room are going to listen to what he has to say, or kill him.

"Will someone please tell me what this Object is?" Anil asks, finally putting his knife away, but still keeping himself between Dosha and the Russian. 

"This can wait for another time, surely," Dr. Krwi offers, having a slug of his own drink: "This room is burned. You must leave it. You must leave this country now and not look back.

"But as soon as we can reconvene, gentlemen, I think a number of things need to be said?"

Dosha nods, looking to Mikhail and then Khalil: "We'll leave here as soon as we can. Then-"

"I am being done with you," Mikhail says: "We have many supers left. I have rolodex full of names. I will !@#$ing go door-to-door if I have to."

"It would be quicker if I teleported you," Anil says, holding out a hand.

"I don't think-" Dosha starts to say, but one look from Anil shuts him up.

"I may not know everything there is to know about this world I've been brought into," the young man says: "And I may not have been 100% honest about certain things with you. But I do know that if we don't work together, we are !@#$ed. And we know who's going to be wearing the condom, don't we?" 

Dosha takes a moment, and then nods. Mikhail takes Anil's hand, and also nods. Khalil doesn't feel like moving, but nods as well.

"No more !@#$ing secrets, then?" Mikhail asks, looking around the room: "Not from each other?"

"No more secrets," Dosha says.

"No more secrets," Khalil adds. 

"No more secrets," Dr. Krwi says.

"And who are you being, anyway?" Mikhail asks.

"Doctor Krwi, of occupied Poland," the fellow says, passing around the Barenjager: "I kill vampires, primarily. But I also worked with the Polish resistance during the War, became far too familiar with Soviet Bloc intelligence after it, and have recently been moonlighting for several people. Most notably SPYGOD."

"I didn't think you wanted to be a party to that, old man?" Dosha asks: "I believe the phrase was 'one favor, since you know him, but that's it'?"

"Well, what can I say? I fear I may have gotten a reluctant taste for it, recently. And we are all that stands against whatever the Imago have planned."

"Oh, very well," Mikhail mutters, nearly downing the rest of the flask with one gulp: "But if any of you play me again, I will be !@#$ing you with my leg."

And on that -- and the need to toast their dead ally one more time before they all leave -- they can all agree.

(SPYGOD is listening to At Night (The Cure) and having a Barenjager)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 3

"How bad is bad?" Khalil asks, getting more and more pale as Mikhail's story goes on.

"Let me put it to you, my friend," the Russian says, downing the rest of his bottle of vodka in two gargantuan swigs: "If you are not drunk now, you had best be soon. Or we will have to carry you out of here, after the story is done."

"You may have to carry him out, anyway," Sir George says, his tone rather archy. 

"It will not be from total destruction of his soul," Mikhail says: "In war, there comes time when every man sees a thing that puts his mind into that war, once and for all. For some, it is the first dead man you see. For others, the first man they make dead. And some must wait for the most horrible of things. Death camps, gulags, torture, slavery, the worthless slaughter of innocents.

"In this war, we have all these things. I would spare him full horror. I would offer him chance to make an anesthesia in his veins, first. I think it is most kind thing I can do."

"Ignorance would be the kindest thing," Dosha opines: "But in its absence, I suppose a good drink would be just the thing."

Khalil takes his point, and, buzzing for the waiter, orders a bottle for everyone -- even Sir George.

* * *

Warsaw is cold and wet, this morning. It's raining like mad, and that's making it hard for the people of the city to go about their business with no electricity. 

In the city, every Monday is a "no" day: no power, no telephone, no internet, and no work. The Imago need the power in the nearest work center, in Pultusk, at least for now. When winter comes, they plan to ease back, and say that only a few hours -- maybe between Midnight and Sunrise -- will be "no." But for now, the people are being asked to do without for the good of all.

Left without work or power, the people tend to take to the streets. They go for walks, read out of doors, play chess in the parks, and barter for goods in the open spaces. The Imago watch these "free markets" with a strange interest -- maybe because they're curious as to how they work, and maybe because they fear them.

They know what can happen when too many people gather in too small a place, after all.

So the Imago aren't really looking as a large, black-clad Indian fellow appears out of nowhere, in the heart of Zoliborz. 

He looks around him and takes a few deep breaths, as though he'd been running to get here. Then he pulls a large stack of photographs out of a deep pocket, and takes the top one to the bottom. He then proceeds to look at the new top one for a full minute, as though whatever he was seeing was the most important thing in the world. 

"Not too far, now," he says. His voice is ragged from crying and exertion. 

He huffs and puffs, and closes his eyes. Then he's gone, again. 

And when he comes back, a few minutes later, he is no longer alone. 

* * *

"The entire leadership?" Khalil asks.

"All of them?" Dosha tries to clarify.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says: "All of them, in one go. They knew the general shape of what was to come. Their precognitives, yes? They all woke up screaming, that morning, knowing that the end of the Palestinian Authority was at hand. So they chose to go out with defiant bang."

"Self fulfilling prophecy, eh?" Sir George snorts: "I expected better, quite frankly."

"!@#$ you," Dosha says: "They chose defiance over subservience. That's a !@#$ sight better than either of our governments have done."

"Your former government, you mean," he says, giving Dosha a gimlet eye: "I seem to remember they tried to burn you after your special friend shot his President."

"Is irrelevant, now," Mikhail insists: "All we hang together, or else they hang us separately, yes?"

"You're drunk," Sir George quips, having a sip of his own brew.

"And you're a goat!@#$er," Dosha says: "But at least in the morning he'll be sober."

"Well, if you have to mangle Churchill-"

"I heard they had been genetically farming certain powers in their children, but I had no idea the program was that advanced," Khalil interjects, hoping to change the conversation from an argument to a discussion, again.

"Advanced? Feh!" Mikhail says, having another drink: "Is not too hard to give a power to a person, so long as you do not !@#$ing care about their survival. In fact, is easiest thing in the world, it seems. Soviets, HONEYCOMB, Nazis, they do it all the time, back in the days. They create human equivalent of missiles. You fire them, they do their super thing, and if they die or melt or explode, well, they can not be interrogated if they are pile of ashes, yes?"

"And the Palestinians had a lot of contact with the Soviets, by way of Egypt, back in the 70's," Sir George adds.

"Which would have been when these children were altered?" Dosha asks.

"Their parents," Mikhail corrects: "Parents are altered, but do not show power. Their children show the power. And the power is sloppy, brutal thing, only really good for one use. You can guess which use that is, yes?"

"And how many children did it take to wipe that part of Ramallah off the map?" Dosha asks.

"That I do not know, my friend. I have heard maybe twenty. It was enough to destroy their administrative center, a few blocks outwards."

"And the Imago who came to see them?" Khalil asks.

"Not even !@#$ing scratched."

Khalil sighs, and downs a slug of his drink: "!@#$ me in prison like a white tourist. This is truly terrible."

"Still, it gets worse," Mikhail says, having another slug: "Because this is the moment, my friends. This is the moment in which Imago realize that they cannot rule this land. Not the way that they want.

"They prefer to tell no one nothing. They want the leaders there to tell them, and only speak once in a while. But there are no leaders left to tell the people what to do.

"And no one they approach to become new leaders will do or say these things. In all these lands, they only find people who will say 'no.' No one to say 'yes.' No one to suck their metal butts and tell them how much they love the chocolate, there.

"No one."

He sighs, and pulls out a blown up photograph. He puts it on the table, so the other three men can look at it.

"I'm... I'm not sure what this is," Sir George admits: "It's a little grainy."

"Gavril, he sends me this after he takes it," Mikhail says: "He is high up on building, shooting camera down. He cannot get very good shot, but you can see enough."

"Is that a crowd of people, running away?" Khalil asks: "Some of them falling down and dying when they're hit by... what is that?"

"Bright orange lines," Dosha says, tracing the course of one as it snakes from the top of the photo down to the face of one of the people who is running away: "I've seen them use that weapon. They fire twin beams from their eyes, and the beams follow you, no matter where you hide."

"And they strike you in the eyes," Khalil adds: "Your eyes turn to steam. Your brain becomes ashes in your skull."

"Once they fire these beams, there is being no escape," Mikhail adds: "You are dead man."

"And that's what this is?" Sir George says, pointing to the couple of Imago as they float above the crowd: "They just started firing at this crowd?"

"Firing at every crowd, everywhere," Mikhail says, sadly: "They float above gatherings for one hour, waiting for signal. People who do not know what has happened, they come out to look, wondering if is some announcement. They laugh and play. They have no idea.

"And then, when signal is given, the execution begins..."

Mikhail takes in a deep breath: "It takes them only two hours. They move throughout country, top to bottom, left to right. They fire beam after beam. Each one finds a target and kills. Men, women, children, babes in cradles. Everyone living is dead, and there is no escape.

"Gavril, he takes this picture. He maybe takes more, but they do not come to me. He sends me message, and says 'Remember us. Remember that we lived and died for right to say no.'

"Then he jumps from building, rather than be shot."

The Russian tears up, and puts a hand over his eyes: "My grandfather's brother, he left Russia many years ago. Went to Israel with other Jews. Said we were crazy to stay behind, but my grandfather, he was true believer. He said there was nothing in Israel but capitalists trying to !@#$ you and Arabs trying to kill you. In USSR, there was safety. In Israel, only danger.

"And look! He was right. He was right."

Mikhail sobs. Khalil tries to not be sick. Dosha closes his eyes.

Sir George stiffens and gasps, feeling a long, wet thing impale him through the back of his neck.

"Hello," Amporn says, her head floating up from behind the Englishman as he starts to die, and her tongue sucking the life from him: "I hope I'm not disturbing you gentlemen?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Three (The Cure) and having a Smirnoff, straight up)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 2

"You know how it was on 3/15," Mikhail begins, making sure everyone has at least two shots of his obscenely strong vodka in them, first: "The revolutionaries struck the leadership of every country, supposedly on behalf of the United States of America. They had the leaders at their mercy, and then called in for further instructions. This is part one.

"And then the Imago came, and saved our leaders, which is part two. And then they tell us that they'd also come to save us from ourselves. That they would be watching us for a time. Protecting us. This is part three. You know all this, already."

"We do, yes," Sir George says, running a finger along the lip of his shotglass: "Just as we know that the Imago were lying, and clearly had their own agenda."

"And just as we know that they've been quite ruthless about enforcing that agenda," Khalil adds: "Many who were leaders in Africa on that day are not leaders now. And their families..."

"Dead, or worse," Dosha finishes his sentence, pushing his glass over towards Mikhail in hopes of a refill.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says, filling up Dosha's glass and offering the same to others: "And worse, well... you have seen how keen they are to separate parents from children, especially in the places where they have given work to the people. They have made it clear that they can take anything they want from you. Take anyone. It is not hard to convince people to say what they want said, and do what they want done, when your children will pay the price if you do not.

"But Israel? Ah, they are nothing but trouble, right from the start.

"Part one does not happen in Israel. The revolutionary fools who try to take Israeli government are smashed to pieces. The idiots who try to take down Palestinian Authority? Also smashed."

"Why them?" Dosha asks: "What is so special about them?"

"It seems that both sides have many precognitives, who are screaming that something terrible is to happen on 3/15, but do not know !@#$ing what it is. Naturally they suspect one another, and remain on quiet high alert. So when revolutionaries strike, everyone's Supers are there. And they smash them."

"Smashing," Sir George smiles, downing his new shot: "So what went wrong?"

"The Imago come down, and you can tell they are not happy," Mikhail continues: "They are expecting things to be one way, and they are other way. So they do their best to go to part three without there being part one or part two. But no one is having this !@#$. Both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?' And 'Who do you think you are to tell us these things?'

"This does not go over very well. The Imago want Israel and Palestinian Authority to broadcast to their peoples the things they wish them to say. Again, both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?'"

"What did the Imago do?" Khalil asks, looking very pale.

"At first? Nothing," Mikhail continues, taking a swig of vodka straight from the bottle: "They say 'fine, be !@#$holes.' They !@#$ off to the sky, or thin air. They leave the Israelis and Palestinians to fend for themselves, no imports or exports, no emergency supplies.

"But, you know these peoples. Both are used to eating !@#$ and !@#$ing gold. They are little shaky at first, but soon they are fine. No problem, yes?

"And then, at last, Imago come back again. This is months later, after Presidential trials are all over, and last American President is man who fell to Earth. And now they say they need Israel and Palestinian Authority to tell their people things. They need to organize people to work, to prepare the Earth from this danger that is coming. They want to take their mentally incompetent away to be healed, and their children away to be educated. Same thing they do in some places."

"Again, why Israel?" Dosha asks: "It seems that most places where the populations were taken from major metropolitan areas and set up in tent cities are less developed places, in less developed countries. Most of India has been resettled, with only places like New Delhi still as it was."

"And Africa," Khalil adds, agreeing: "Major cities like Nairobi and Addis Ababa were left alone, but everything outside of them was uprooted."

"Maybe to punish them for being so !@#$ stubborn," Sir George offers: "Maybe they really hate Jews and Palis. Who can say? World conquerors don't always have rational reasons."

"Is good point," Mikhail says, pouring him some more vodka: "Who can say? But what happens next, we can say. Because we have seen."

He shudders, and takes another swig.

* * *

In a darkened room with one, shuttered window, not too far away from Poke's, two Thai men -- one young, one middle-aged -- are standing by a large, metal crate. They smoke bad cigarettes and wait, occasionally thumbing their very large, loosely-holstered pistols, and shooting nervous looks at the crate.

Especially when they hear what's inside of it move.

"Why haven't they called, yet?" the younger man asks, looking at the cellphone over on a table with no chairs. It's sitting next to a small, wooden box that's quite old, but has a very new lock on it. 

"Because they haven't called, yet," the older man sighs, wishing the kid they'd stuck him with would learn to relax.

"They really should have !@#$ing called by now-"

"Shut up," the older one says, slicking back his hair and wishing this safehouse had a !@#$ air conditioner that worked.

"You know I'm right. They should have called by now."

"And I'm telling you to shut up," the other man says, walking to the window and looking out for no real reason: "You know how this is. We'll be called when we're called. Until then, we are patient."

The younger man sighs. He joined Internal Security to have more control over his own situation, but since those Imago bastards showed up, it's been less about having control, and more about people having control over him.

(Of course, upon reflection, he realizes ISOC's always been that way. It was just a better illusion before 3/15.)

Finally, the slim, black cellphone rings. They both look at it, and then at each other, and realize no one wants to actually answer it. But after the third ring, the older man sighs, walks over, and bites the bullet.

"Yeah," he says, listening: "Pokes? ... Okay, that makes sense. ... You want them all dead? ... Okay, no problem. We'll tell her."

He hangs up, puts the phone down, and pulls out his pistol. He nods to the younger man, who gulps, and then, very slowly, goes over to one side of the crate. There's a hidden keypad, there, and he types in the combination that opens it up.

The well-oiled metal slides open like a flower greeting the sun, and then there's a woman in the room with them. She's wearing a simple shirt over a flowing skirt, like what a country girl might. Her skin is as pale as the Moon, and her eyes are blood red with black, nickel-sized pupils.

And her jet-black lips are curdled into a very nasty frown, looking at the two men.

"Hello, Amporn," the older man says: "You remember me from last time, right? You know what this gun does, and what we have."

"When do I get it back?" she demands, her voice deeper than it should be for one so seemingly frail and light.

"We're not sure, yet," he says, and this is the truth: "Things have changed. But soon, I think."

"That's what they said twenty years ago," she accuses: "You have no truth to you. I will enjoy taking you, when they tell me."

"You be quiet!" the younger man shouts, pointing his gun at the box at the table: "I will !@#$ing shoot it, you !@#$. Don't think I won't."

"And I won't stop him," the older man says, trying to mask his annoyance at the younger agent's outburst: "We can always find another thing like you. Maybe Cambodia, this time. I hear the ones up there have better manners."

The girl smiles. Her teeth are white, long, and jagged, like the shards of a broken plate: "I will have your wife, before I have you. I'll wait until she's with your child, and suck it out of her in the night. And then I'll slop its broken, little body into your mouth as I'm having you, just to hear the sounds you make..."

The younger agent picks that moment to be horribly, violently sick. The girl laughs at his nausea and embarrassment as he scuttles away from her, trying to regain control and point his gun at the box.

"You nasty little !@#$!" the older man shouts: "If we didn't need you..."

"Oh, but that's just it," she smiles: "You do need me. And that's why you won't hurt what's in the box, and you won't even breathe on my body, when I leave. Now will you?"

She has them there, and they know it. 

"Now, what are my orders... master?"

"The bar, Pokes, over on Silom Soi 4. On the second floor there's a table. There are four farang there: a Russian, an Indian, an African, and an Englishman. You will go there and kill them all, and then return here."

"Are they special?"

"We suspect one or more of them may be, but we're not sure how. The Indian has a special man, but he's gone and won't be disturbing you."

"He'd better not," she says, stretching her back and arms: "I'm hungry enough to eat ten men, today."

"Well, go have your meal, woman," the older man says: "You have an hour. After that, we burn your body. Same as always."

"Same as always," she repeats, looking at them with luscious contempt. 

And then, with the wet rushing of unspeakable things, she's gone.  

* * *

"It starts in Jerusalem," Mikhail continues, after a moment: "In house of government. There is cabinet meeting, and it is being taped for posterity. They are deciding something important and want record of it.

"Halfway through meeting, Imago show up, and tell Prime Minister to get all his people there. And he does this, but who knows why. He gets other Party heads, the President, some ambassadors. Maybe he is wanting an audience. Maybe he wants strength in numbers.

"And then, once they are all there, these Imago start to tell him what he will be doing, and saying. Like old Soviets, they make it sound like good things, and important things, and how could he possibly resist such sensible commands?

"And there, in front of his people, and the heads of the other parties, and the President of Israel, he says 'No.'

"And they are shocked, and ask him to repeat himself. To explain himself. 

"But he says 'No, I will not do these things. I am not your puppet. I am the leader, here, and we do not do things because metal men from the past come and tell us America has gone insane and a space monster is coming to Earth. If America had attacked us, we would have known. And if there is such a monster, we will fight it off, with others if we can, by ourselves if need be. 

"'But this is Israel. It was purchased in blood. It was won through combat. It has been secured, time and again, by the sacrifice of its people. We will not do what you tell us to do, because you do not have the right.'"

Sir George blinks: "Bravo. I would have never thought he had that in him."

"Maybe he did not know, either. But this speech, it made them very angry. So one of them teleports away, and when it comes back it has his wife."

"Oh no," Khalil says, knowing what's coming next.

"This does not deter him," Mikhail continues: "Not even when her head is on his desk and her body is out in the street, having been thrown through the window. He is screaming, and so is everyone there, but still he is saying 'no.'

"So they find his children, and ask him one more time. And, again, he says 'no.'"

Mikhail stops, picks up the bottle, and is about to have another swig, but then puts it down. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them they are very wet. 

"I forget who succeeds the Prime Minister in case of sudden death," he continues: "So I do not know who they ask once the Prime Minister is sent out of window to join his wife and children in street below. But I know that person also says no. And the President says no. And next person after that says no. And no and no and no, all the way down.

"Eventually, is just down to one cabinet minister. And she stands there, covered in blood of her colleagues and friends and rivals, and people did she did not truly know until this day, and looking at her husband's frightened eyes as some metal man has his hands around his neck, like chicken for the pot. And she says to them 'You are tiny. You are nothing. You have nothing on your side but lies and tricks. And you will find no one here who will say yes to you, because this is Israel, and whatever reason God put us here, it was not to say yes to the likes of you.'"

The Russian finally has that swig.

"So they went to the Palestinians next?" Dosha asks.

"Oh yes," Mikhail says: "And that is when things get really bad."

(SPYGOD is listening to A Reflection (The Cure) and having a Phuket)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 1

Bangkok's a sauna, come September: its incessant humidity broken only by intermittent showers of rain you wouldn't want to drink, even on a bar bet.

On afternoons like this, in Patpong, the streets are full but the sidewalks are nearly empty. Anyone with any sense has gone inside to get out of the wet and the heat in hopes of finding some dry and cool. The electrical grid flickers, every so often, with all the air conditioners threatening a brown out, and the bars do a brisk trade of bottled water and cold beer.

But then, no one really comes here for just the drinks.

Patpong, for better or worse, is the best-known expatriate playground in the city. Farangs looking for that certain thing that the tourist brochures and hotel concierges don't want to talk about, but everyone knows about, wind up here, eventually. The ground floor go-go bars bring in the average joes, while those in the mood for something a little more exotic -- or illegal -- go up to the second floor, or higher.

Not all of them come back down.

It would be grossly unfair to say that Patong is all about the skin trade, though. There are many other reasons to visit this neighborhood, and many other kinds of drinking establishments, some of which cater to expatriates just trying to keep in touch with one another. Lonely foreigners who want to see friendly and familiar faces head there, first, knowing that sooner or later they'll encounter one of their countrymen, and possibly a new friend.

And then there are those places that cater to the sort of people who don't want to be found.

On Silom Soi 4, nestled amongst the bars that cater almost exclusively to gay men, Katooeys, and the like, there's a two-story place called Pokes. In spite of the suggestive name, and the makeup of some of its clientele, the well-appointed, wood and brass establishment is not necessarily geared towards hooking up for sex. Indeed, anyone who goes in there looking for go-go girls or available boys tends to get toyed with by the bartender, and then gently escorted out by the bouncer.

Put simply, Pokes exists so that people with certain needs can meet people who can provide those needs, or put them in touch with someone who can. If you need a tourguide who will take you places that aren't on any map, a man who can help you hide your money, or reclaim what was stolen, a journalist who can get you in touch with hard-to-find sources, or a detective who can get you out of trouble, Pokes is the best place to go. 

And, judging from how busy it gets, there are a lot of people in Bangkok who need it.

Yet, at the same time, the bar conversely provides a shelter for those who don't want to be disturbed. Business happens on the first floor, and solitude -- both singly or in groups -- takes place in the curtained, recessed tables on the second. Fine dining can be brought up from the restaurant next door, drinks are shuttled up by dumb waiter to a stone-deaf server at the back of the darkened room, and woe betide anyone who tries to take their noisy needs up the staircase.

(They say there's a third floor, too, but no one's willing to say what happens, there, if anything. Maybe that's where the gatecrashers go.)

Today, around two in the afternoon, a large, burly, and quite homely fellow dressed -- and bearded -- too heavily for this weather walks in, nods to the bartender, and points up to the stairs. The tender nods and gestures, and up the stairs he goes, heavy feet clomping all the way up. 

He goes to a large table, draws the curtain behind him, and sits down facing the stairwell. It takes him a full five minutes of sitting there to actually relax, and then he's just waiting for the waiter to send up his usual bottle of vodka -- without the cap, of course.

Ten minutes -- and three significant shots -- later, he's joined by a tall and large man dressed nicely, but still too warmly for the climate. He's dark skinned, with a very flat nose, short hair, and a neatly groomed mustache. He walks up the stairs, takes in the room, and heads straight for the curtained-off table. 

"Mikhail," he says, his voice deep and musical. (Ethiopian.)

"Khalil," the burly fellow replies, his thick accent giving his nationality away more than the vodka does. (Russian.) 

Khalil smiles, and makes a point of sitting up against the wall, so that he can keep one eye on Mikhail and another on the stairwell: "Do we know who else is coming?"

"That I do not know, my friend. I only who is not coming."

Khalil's about to ask the obvious question, but then there's another set of footfalls coming up the stairwell. This time it's a short, ginger-haired fellow who's dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, which is the perfect clothing for this sort of day. He gives off the carefree vibes of someone who's just on vacation, but there's traps in his eyes, ready to spring shut on anyone who might mess with him.

"Sir George," Mikhail says, not bothering to rise: "This is Khalil, from NGUVU. Is your first time meeting in person, yes?"

"I do believe so, yes," he replies, his British accent as clipped as a well-trimmed toenail: "But I know who you are, sir."

"May I buy you a drink?" the African asks, smiling. Something behind George's eyes hardens, just for a second, and then it's gone, but that's told Khalil all he needs to know. 

Just before Sir George can come up with a polite refusal, there's a noise like a marker on a whiteboard, and two Indian men are in the room. One's large, young man, dressed like he watched too many Matrix movies. The other's older, and dressed more conservatively, with bad facial scars and raggedy, long hair.

"Dosha," Mikhail says, standing up: "I am so relieved to see you, my friend. I had heard bad stories."

"They are all quite true," Dosha Josh says, nodding to the young man who brought him here. There's another sound, and then the young man is gone, just as Dosha pointedly takes the seat that Sir George was going to take.  

"So, this is all of us, then?" Sir George asks, trying to rebound from that snub and take the last --and least safe -- seat that remains.

"It is," Dosha replies: "Francois did not survive 3/15, and what's left of Direction Noir isn't to be trusted, now. Mister 9 is missing, presumed dead, and his people are next to useless without him."

"And, as I understand, Jose Julia has pulled one of his famous disappearing acts," Mikhail says, pouring himself another shot.

"And we know what happened to poor Jomo and his agency, don't we?" Sir George says, shooting a significant look at Khalil. 

"That just leaves the Gavril person you spoke of," Khalil says, choosing to ignore the glare, at least for now: "Will he be joining us, then?"

"I am afraid the answer is no," Mikhail says, hitting a buzzer on the table to summon the upstairs waiter: "Gavril is also dead. But before he died, he gave to me much useful information. I would give this information to you, my friends. But first, we should drink."

"To his memory? Quite right-" Sir George begins to say, but has his speech halted by a large, red palm.

"To settle us in this place, in this moment," Mikhail corrects him: "To loosen our minds and let certain terrible things wash over us, rather than sweep us away."

"Then the rumors are true?" Dosha asks: "About Israel?"

Mikhail nods: "I have a horror story to tell you, this day. And I fear none of you will ever wish to meet again, after I tell you this thing. But I owe it to him to see that his last words are known, and heard, and understood by those who might be able to do something about this.

"As for whether you are willing, well," he shrugs, regarding the waiter as he appears at the edge of the curtain: "We shall see, yes?"

* * *

Three blocks away, in an alley that's best left deserted, Anil appears. He takes a look up and down the cramped, wet passage, and then navigates its trash and detritus until he comes to a locked metal door. 

He hesitates, just for a second. Then he bangs on it, three times, his eyes screwed shut as he does. 

The locks tumble and and unlock, and suddenly he finds he can turn the knob. He sighs, opens it, and goes into the darkened interior. 

Inside there's a room that's mostly empty, except for an orange crate, and a black, slim cell phone. He closes the door behind him, picks up the phone, and dials a number he wishes he didn't know.

"Where are they?" a raspy voice asks.

"Poke's," Anil says: "The second floor. The large private table."

"Very well," it answers him: "If this is true, our agreement stands."

"It is true. Please let her go. Please-"

"Once this matter is concluded, and not before," the voice insists: "You should understand that by now."

The phonecall goes dead. Anil puts the phone down. He weeps, for all the good it will do him.

But there's nothing he can do now but regret.   

(SPYGOD is listening to At Night (The Cure) and having the nastiest Russian vodka you never heard of)

12/7-9/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Tanzania

It's been a wild couple of !@#$ days, let me tell you. You know you're in trouble when the enemy sends stampeding, steam-powered, cyborg war elephants armed with repeating spear throwers after your safari jeeps, and it's only you, what few bullets you have left, and the dazed, confused, and unamused wildlife keeping your fine, gay !@#$ in one piece.

(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)

No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.

But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.

(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)

We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.

Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.

But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.

The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.

Not even close.

Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?

Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.

I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"

Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?

Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.

This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.

The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.

The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.

(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)

So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.

No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.

(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)

BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.

They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.

The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.

So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.

But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me.  And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...

... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.

And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.

I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.

That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.

In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.

From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.

That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.

At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"

But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"

And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.

Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.

On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way. 

Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.

(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)

That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.

Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.

After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.

(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)

And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.

See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.

I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.

But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.

(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)

* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.